


How to Mother a Russian Assassin 101

by Goneahead



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen, Sick Fic, porridge-making
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-11
Updated: 2014-11-11
Packaged: 2018-02-24 22:40:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2599178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goneahead/pseuds/Goneahead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Natasha trusts Clint with her secret, and Clint attempts to make porridge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How to Mother a Russian Assassin 101

**Author's Note:**

> No, this is not a series. Unbetaed and another short ficlet for Mini WriMo. Yes, I know kasha can be made from other stuff, but toasted buckwheat is very much a Russian thing. Yes, I also know Qurac is DC, but lets just go with it. Prompt: Minor illness

"You OK, buddy?" The taxi cab driver asked, as he merged into a gap that shouldn't have been able to fit a Mini Cooper.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine." Clint answered, while instinctively stomping on the floorboards.

The taxi cab driver gave a shrug, and squeezed the taxi through another impossibly tiny opening in traffic.

Clint wasn't OK, though. Not really.

Natasha was sick. Again.

Well, not again _again_. They'd been together five years--six years if he included all those months spent chasing her from one end of the world to the other. So, only like, four times in six years. Still, Natasha was sick and this was the fourth damn time and he wished the doctors would hurry up and figure out why. It always started out as fever and a sore throat. Kind of like a mild case of the flu, but the stupid tests never found anything, except low blood cell counts. Which was weird, because Natasha didn't get sick, not normally.

Which was also weird. 

Natasha never caught a cold, or whatever other bug was going around. And she healed crazy fast. Of course, just last month, Clint had watched Norse gods duking it out in New Mexico, of all places. 

Weird? Summed up his whole fucking _life_.

The taxi cab pulled up the curb of Natasha's building. Clint paid the guy, and grabbed the grocery bags.

He got one finger free, rang the doorbell.

No answer. 

Clint chewed on his lower lip, worried. Natasha was one of three scariest people on the entire planet--along with Fury and May, of course. She was also a complete baby when she was sick. Not that she let anyone see _that_ side of her, but he wasn't anyone--he was her partner.

He hit the buzzer again. 

Waited.

The intercom finally, _finally_ came on. "Go away."

"Its me, Nat. I'm back, let me in."

"You're in Qurac." Her voice sounded rough and scratchy.

He frowned at that. "I was in Qurac, but they canceled the revolution."

"Did you bring me something to eat?"

"Yes." Clint rolled his eyes at the question, because she was really asking if he'd picked up buckwheat. Of all the foods in the world, Natasha's favorite had to be buckwheat porridge.  _Toasted_  buckwheat. It was apparently a Russian thing. "And more of that spice tea stuff you like."

The lock on the front door clicked. Clint realized then that he needed a whole hand free, not just one finger. He juggled the groceries, got a hand free and the door open, and went upstairs. Went down the hall, and then juggled everything again so he could knock--

Natasha opened the door first. She was in leggings and a sweatshirt she had 'borrowed' from him. "It's called chai. And you don't cancel a revolution."

"You do when the neighboring country invades." He walked in, set the bags on the counter, held out his arms. 

Natasha hesitated, then accepted his offer of a hug. "I feel like shit." She mumbled the words against his chest.

He brushed back her hair, laid a hand on her forehead--and let out a small sigh of relief. The fever had broken. If this was like last time, she was over the worst of it. "You sound like shit, too." 

"Thanks." She glared, but let him put an arm around her, steer her over to one of the couches.

"Stop talking and sit. I'll make you some porridge."

"It's _kasha_." She curled up on the couch, tucked her feet under her, hugged her arms to her chest. 

He waited for it.

"I'm cold."

"OK." He dutifully picked up the blanket laying on the _other_ couch, draped it over her.Then he fetched the second grocery bag. "Here. I got you these, too."

She peeked in the bag--and her eyes lit up when she saw this week"s stack of tabloids.

"You want more tea?"

Nat nodded as she opened one of the tabloids, and burrowed deeper beneath the blanket.

The electric kettle was already on, so Clint refilled her cup, and then filled a tea ball. He set the cup beside her. 

She put the tabloid down. "I'm starving."

And there it was--the whine.

"All right. Now, stop talking, OK? Give your throat a rest."

He went back to the kitchen, rummaged for the buckwheat and a pan. Then he reached for his spare clip, took out the folded up index card. Because, yeah, everybody just happened to carry a recipe for _porridge_ with their ammo.

"Clint?"

OK, that? Was her 'I'm still cold' whine.

He put the index card down. "I'll get you another blanket." He grabbed one from the hall closet. Shook it out, spread it over her. "Anything else?"

"I _hate_ being sick."

He leaned over, tucked the second blanket around her, brushed a hand across her forehead. "I know, it sucks." He handed her back the tabloid. "Now, stay there, and I'll make you something to eat."

She nodded and he headed back to the kitchen. He picked up the pan, filled it with water--

"Clint?"

He knew that whine, too. He looked over, and yup, the remote was sitting on the bookcase next to the TV. He shook his head, and went to fetch it for her.


End file.
